


Hello-Goodbye

by CatiDono



Series: He Said Yes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace, Angst, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Vessel!dean, how do tags, i actually ignore the prize fight entirely, it's complicated - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatiDono/pseuds/CatiDono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Michael takes out the devil, he lets Dean go just like he promised.  But Dean finds out quickly that you can't just walk away from being the vessel of an archangel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before You Start a War

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not about Dean being a vessel, it's about Dean after he's a vessel. It gets a bit weird, but just go with it, it'll turn out okay.  
> Also if you're here for the Destiel you'd better stay til the very end....

_Jimmy Novak had been right; it was like being chained to a comet. Michael's Grace was around him and through him and had been for… Dean didn't know how long. Time, physical exertion, pain; everything was muted, blotted out by the sheer sensory overload of the angel inside of him. The passage of time meant little to Michael, and so it meant little to Dean. Michael's very being made Dean more alive than he had ever been, so what did he need with sleep or food? Any wounds to Dean's physical body were healed as instantly and completely as if they had never happened. Left to himself, Dean might have been scared, but the angel's Grace was so all-encompassing that Dean's puny emotions were lost in the enormity of his being._

_Dean was relatively certain that it hadn't begun this way. He thought that there may have been a time when he still had access to his body, could utilize his senses if he tried. He had seen Sam like that, just once, when he had still known what was going on outside his own mind. He thought Sam might have been shouting, but the memory was transparent, fleeting. Much of what Dean had been was washed away now, eroded in the light of Michael's glory._

_He remained there, wrapped protectively in Michael's Grace, unaware of anything save the occasional shift as the angel transported them from place to place. It was a peace Dean had never known, and he felt he could have waited forever, perhaps fallen asleep there and never woken up. But even if Dean had long since forgotten why he was there and what he had given up, Michael had not._

_The archangel had learned about Dean from their constant contact, learned more than anyone could ever know about him, more even than Dean knew about himself. And Michael had grown to respect this man, this human who had fought the inevitable so hard, who had tried until his final moments to protect those he loved. So while it may have been easier for Michael to remain within Dean forever, or for him to gently soothe Dean's soul away until there was nothing left, he didn't. He kept his word, kept it even knowing the pain it was likely to cause. Because the most important thing he learned about the man called Dean Winchester was that he would never, ever stop trying to save those who needed saving. And right now there were many who needed his help._

)(

For Dean, coming back to consciousness was like having a load of smothering blankets peeled off of him one by one. The first sensation to return, ever so faintly, was touch. Dean was lying on something soft, rough cloth under his hands. Next was smell and taste, and Dean registered the chemical burn of ozone on his tongue. Hearing came shortly after, the sounds of running water and glass clinking too loud in his ears. Sight was last, and Dean only knew it had returned because the lightness of the void slowly darkened to the reddish-black of closed eyelids.

As his senses returned, so did his awareness. Dean could remember saying yes to Michael, having the angel's being and light filling him completely. After that there was just a sensation of slow loss mingled with such divine wonder and awe that it took Dean's breath away. And Dean realized then that he was breathing, that his body was his once more. And with that awareness, he heard the voice, the one from long ago and yet only a few moments earlier, ringing with bells and trumpets.

 **I have kept my promise to you Dean, although I do not think you anticipated the difficulty that is bound to follow this act. Should your return prove too much, or too little, for you, you need only call me and I shall return and take you into myself once more.** Dean thought he heard, for the first time, a trace of emotion enter the voice. It sounded like amusement.   **But I do not think you shall. Goodbye, Dean Winchester. As I said before, thank you. And I am sorry.**  

With that, Michael left Dean completely, flowing out of him with the same awesome power that he had entered with. But unlike before, this time hurt. A hundred thousand needles ripped through Dean's being and left him torn and sagging, like a shredded sail on a ship too damaged to travel. A part of Dean had been taken by Michael, and now Dean understood why the archangel had apologized; he thought that the sense of wrongness in him might kill him on the spot. Gradually the feeling lessened to something more tolerable, but Dean felt as though it were still there, hovering just below the surface.

He must have made some noise, because the water stopped and he heard floorboards creak and shoes thump. Everything seemed much too loud, and Dean didn't dare open his eyes for fear they would burn out of his skull. Someone grabbed his arm, and Dean whimpered again as nerves that he hadn't used in months reacted to the touch.

"Dean?"

For a moment Dean's breath caught in his throat. That voice.  Even husky with worry and lack of sleep, he would know it anywhere.  "Sammy?" Dean tried to say, but the word that fell from his lips was jumbled and unfamiliar, and the room seemed to vibrate with it. The hand on his arm jerked back.

"Dean? Is that you?" There was fear in Sam's voice now, and Dean's heart clenched. His brother shouldn't be afraid of him. It was just Dean now.  He was alone, no more Michael. The thought tugged at the emptiness inside him and made him cringe.

"How is he, Sam?" This voice was rough and deep, and for the second time in as many minutes Dean felt as though he might cry from joy. He swallowed, determined to make his mouth work this time.

"Castiel?" This name seemed better suited to his lips, and Dean was sure he had said it correctly. Still not trusting his eyes, he reached a hand out. "Sam?  Sammy, it's me." This time the words were right, but they felt strange on Dean's lips, as though he had not spoken English in a very long time. 

Someone took his hand, and the sensation was so great that Dean almost passed out again.  "Dean!" Sam's voice broke with relief, and Dean could feel something dripping onto his hand, warm and wet. He gave Sam's fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Don't cry man, I'm fine." Dean hoped that the words didn't sound like the blatant lies they were, but when Sam choked out a laugh he breathed a sigh of relief. "How long was I out?"

Cas answered before Sam could, and Dean could hear rustling as the angel drew closer. "Michael came here after—after the battle. He said that he was going to keep the promise he made you. Then he lay down on that sofa, and you have not moved, nor spoken, nor even breathed since. That was five days ago." Dean could feel the angel's eyes on him, studying him, and it made him nervous.

"Open your eyes." Although Cas spoke softly, it was a command. Dean shook his head slowly. It would hurt, he knew. Whatever else being possessed by Michael had done to him, he somehow knew that his eyes wouldn't work the same.

"No," he whispered.

"Dean, I am not asking. Open your eyes, now." Cas' voice was hard, and Dean quaked at the tone. But a part of him was angry with Cas. He had no right to order Dean around, and for a moment Dean considered turning away and ignoring the angel. But then Sam spoke.

"Why? Cas, is something wrong with his eyes? Did Michael make him blind like Pamela?" The near-panic in his voice was barely concealed, and Dean couldn't bring himself to make Sam worry any more. Steeling himself, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, taking deep breaths to control his roiling stomach.

His eyes didn't shrivel or burn, for which he was grateful, but everything he looked at seemed clearer than he remembered, more defined. He was in Bobby's house, which he could have guessed by the comforting scents of whiskey and old paper. The cracks in the plaster above him seemed sharper than usual, and he could make out the individual brush strokes in the paint of the devil's trap. A beam of sunlight slanted across the room, and for a moment Dean imagined he could see each speck of dust suspended in it.

"Look at me," Cas ordered, so Dean obediently turned his eyes to the angel standing beside him.  

He gasped. The angel seemed just as Dean remembered him, and yet there was so much _more_. First and foremost, the angel's wings were unfurled behind him in all their splendor, glossy black feathers mixing with shadows and light where they touched the walls and bookshelves. There was also a fullness to Cas that Dean had never seen, a sort of pure glow that made him ache with longing for what he had lost.

The angel was staring at Dean with wide eyes, seeming not to have noticed Dean's scrutiny. Next to him Sam muttered "Holy shit."

Dean turned to ask Sam what was wrong and cried out involuntarily, flinching. "Holy shit, Sam.  What happened to you face?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked in confusion, but Dean just stared in a sort of horrified fascination. More than half of Sam's face was covered in thick white scars and what looked like burns, some of which were oozing a yellowish liquid. Dean hoped that whoever had done this to Sam was already dead for their own sake, because if they weren't, he was going to make them suffer first.

"Dean, what are you talking about? Nothing happened to my face—what the hell happened to your eyes?"

"Don't tell me nothing happened to your face, it's covered in scars! You look like you got caught in the middle of a fight between Wolverine and the Human Torch!" Fear made Dean's voice harsher than he meant. Next to him, Cas sucked in a breath sharply.

"Sam, why don't you go get Dean a drink of water and a sandwich. He's probably hungry." Cas kept his voice calm, but Dean could see his wings rustling agitatedly.

"Really Cas? Now's not exactly the best time. Dean, I swear there is nothing wrong with my face, look." Sam tried to lift Dean's hand to his cheek but Dean instinctively pulled away, not wanting to touch the raw-looking wounds.

"Sam, go." The command was back in Cas' voice, and Sam looked up, bewildered.

"But Cas—"

"NOW.  Please, Sam. Your brother is just disoriented, he'll be all right in a minute. Besides, he needs to get nutrients into him now that he's supporting his own metabolism again."

Dean tried to protest, but to his complete shock Cas swept a wing forward and covered his mouth. The touch of the feathers sent a jolt through his system, and he found himself craving more of it. Carefully he reached a hand up, wondering if he could run his fingers through the feathers and capture some of the vitality inside. Cas twitched nervously, but other than that gave no sign that he knew what Dean was doing.

Oblivious, Sam gave Dean one more worried look before lifting himself off the floor and making his way into the kitchen. As soon as he was out of sight, Cas jerked his wing away from Dean and bent over him, blue eyes boring into him.

"Dean," he said slowly and clearly, "can you see my wings?" Dean considered it a stupid question, as he was currently trying to catch hold of the nearest wingtip again, wondering if it was really as soft as it looked. But Cas pulled his wings back and forced Dean's hand away.

"Dammit Dean, this is important." Dean blinked. Cas had never said "dammit" before, that Dean could remember. "I need to know, can you see my wings?"

"Of course I can see them," Dean snapped, trying to focus on Cas' face instead of his wings, which were ruffled again. "They take up the whole frigging room man, where the hell have you been keeping them? And why doesn't Sam know that his face looks like he's had the Freddy Krueger experience?"

Cas stared at Dean for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to the floor without blinking, eyes still fixed on Dean. He didn't speak, and if Dean hadn't known better he would have said the angel was at a loss for words.

"Hello, Cas? Wanna fill me in here?"

"Dean—"Cas began, but then stopped, glancing over his shoulder to the kitchen, where Sam had just finished slapping together a roast beef sandwich. "Look, I promise I will explain everything later, but for right now please, act normal. Sam's face doesn't actually look like that. It's fine, he hasn't been injured at all, so don't bring it up."

"How the hell am I supposed to not bring it up, he—"

"Dean, please!" Cas' eyes were large and guileless, and Dean was rattled by the uncertainty he saw there. Dean nodded grudgingly as Sam came back into the room, big brown eyes watching Dean nervously from his ruined face.

"Fine. But there had better be a damn good explanation for this later."

Cas nodded gratefully and stood. Dean had been hoping that his wing would brush by him again, but the angel seemed to be making a conscious effort to avoid any physical contact with Dean. With a shrugging motion, he folded the wings against his back, smaller and smaller until they suddenly winked out of existence, like flipping a light switch. Dean blinked, but Cas was saved from answering any questions by Sam's return with the food.

Ignoring the unexpected disappointment at not being able to see the wings anymore, Dean accepted the plate that his brother handed him. Now that he could smell the beef, he had to admit that he was hungrier than he ever remembered being.

"So," Sam said, watching Dean warily. "You feeling better? Still think I look funny?"

Dean met his brother's eyes and didn't look anywhere else, pretending that Sam's face wasn't horribly disfigured. "Yeah," he managed, "Yeah I feel better.  And I'm sorry, I must have still been wigging out a little from the whole angel thing. Your face is fine." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, what's wrong with my eyes?"

Sam swallowed nervously before answering his brother. "They're, um, silver."


	2. You'd Better Know Just What—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets some answers. And more questions.

Dean blinked. "They what?"

"I don't know man. They were green before, and then you just woke up and now they're like freaking dimes. You sure you can see alright?" Sam's tone implied that he didn't believe Dean's explanation of the face thing, but Dean refused to answer the unspoken question.

"Yeah, it's fine. Maybe even a little better than before. For the most part." Dean thought he should probably be more concerned, but the color of his eyes was the least strange thing that had happened since he woke up. He tried to sit up and almost fell off the couch. Muscles that he hadn't used in a long time ached and spasmed, and he swore under his breath, flopping back down on the sofa.

"How long have I been… gone?" he finally asked.

"just over a month." Sam answered quietly.

Dean stared at him. "Four weeks?" he repeated. "I was only riding shotgun with Michael for  _four weeks_?"

Sam frowned. "Yeah, Dean. What were you expecting?"

Dean shook his head. "Honestly? I was worried it would be years. Being in there—it just felt like a lot longer."

Sam let out a slow breath. "Damn. So what was it like? What's the last thing you remember?"

"What was it like?" Dean tried to put the feeling of Michael's Grace into words, but couldn't. Finally he settled for "Really weird." When Sam raised an eyebrow, Dean shrugged defensively. "Look man, I went into that alley, and called Michael and said yes, and he came down, and… that's it, really. Remember when we talked to Jimmy that one time? He said it was like being strapped to a comet, and he was right. There was just so  _much_  of Michael, and his Grace just kind of—" Dean gestured helplessly with his hands. "I guess I just clocked out of it all at some point."

There was quiet for a few minutes as Sam tried to absorb the information and Dean tried to look anywhere but at his face. Finally Dean broke the silence. "So I'm guessing that since I'm here and you're here, Michael got Lucifer before the devil got you?"

Sam glared at Dean in sudden anger. "Yeah, barely. Once Lucifer found out that Michael had gotten to his vessel early, he stepped up the ad campaign. I barely slept for the last three weeks, because he was always there, in my head. Cas wore himself out zapping me away from all of the demons and monsters that came after us. And you weren't around to wake me up and tell me you believed in me." The pain in his voice was obvious. "Dean, how could you just go off like that? You didn't tell us, you didn't even leave a note."

"Because I knew you would've stopped me." Even to Dean that defense sounded feeble.

"Damn right we would have stopped you! It was a stupid thing to do, and you could've died! All I knew was that you said you were going to get a cheeseburger and then disappeared. A day later Michael showed up  _wearing_  you and used your voice to tell me that you said yes and that I had to stay strong because he didn't want to have to kill me." Sam's eyes were bright with tears of anger. "So yeah, now that you're safe and relatively sound, I can tell you that I'm a little pissed."

Dean opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. Sam watched him for a moment longer, waiting for a response. When Dean remained silent, he abruptly stood up. Muttering something about going to let Bobby know Dean was awake he left, slamming the door a little too hard behind him. Dean watched him go, apologies and arguments still trapped in his throat.

"I agree with your brother that you could have handled the situation better, but what's done is done." Cas pulled over a chair and sat in it, eyes watching Dean warily. "You have other problems right now."

"Like what?"

Cas didn't answer for a moment, but when he did it was with another question. "Do you know, in all of history, the number of archangel vessels who have survived their time as a vessel?"

"No, but I doubt I'm going to like it."

"None. From the first time an angel took a human vessel, the body has died as soon as the angel within returned to heaven, and often the soul with it. And do you know why?" Dean was silent. "Because to share a body with an angel is one of the most corrosive things that can happen to a human soul short of demonic possession."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Why? Aren't angels supposed to be good and peaceful and all that?"

It was Cas' turn to raise an eyebrow. "Would you use the word peaceful to describe your time with Michael? Besides, it isn't done on purpose, most of the time."

"Excuse me?"

Cas struggled to find the right words. "It's not intentional, but if a human soul is... in contact with an angel's Grace for too long, the soul is absorbed into the angel. I think it has something to do with the fact that angels do not have 'souls' in the same manner as humans, and so our very substance seeks to fill the emptiness with something compatible."

Dean's heart twinged at the word "emptiness", but he ignored it. "Alright, so it's not good for you if you're stuck for too long, but I was only there for a month. When we met Jimmy—"

"Jimmy was the vessel of a lesser angel, one who exercised as little of his power as possible. An archangel…" Cas shook his head. "I am trying to think of a comparison in terms you will understand. If Jimmy thought being in proximity to my Grace was like being tied to a comet, then to share a body with Michael would be the equivalent of containing an entire solar system. Maybe even an entire galaxy. A soul doesn't simply recover from something like that, not after a month of constant exposure to an archangel who was exerting his full might."

Dean paled as he thought over what Cas had said. "So what, you're telling me I'm damaged goods? That I'll kick off any minute now?"

"I'm telling you that I don't know  _what_  you are!" the frustration in Cas' voice was evident. "Something like you has never happened before. Consequently, I can't tell you what to expect from it. From all appearances you have been gifted with powers that I thought were granted only to angels. Furthermore, I suspect that a greater damage has been done to you than what I can see. You're an entirely new creature, Dean."

Dean twitched; Cas' words echoed uncomfortably close to those of someone Dean never wanted to think about again.  _I carved you into a new animal Dean._  Angrily he shoved the memory down. "So, what you're saying is that my eyes are a product of being a vessel for so long? And that's why I can see your wings?" Cas nodded. "But that still doesn't explain Sam's face."

"Actually, Dean, it does. Part of angelic sight is seeing humans in both body and soul. It's one of the ways we can tell when a person is possessed by a demon." Cas watched Dean with careful eyes, waiting for him to make the connection.

"Wait a second, you're telling me that's Sam's  _soul_  that I'm seeing? That his soul is what's torn up and burned, not his real face? But how the hell—" Dean cut himself off. "The demon blood. That's what his demon blood addiction did to him?" Cas' silence was answer enough.

Dean didn't say a word for several seconds, the full horror of what he'd seen settling on him. Finally he asked, "how do I fix it?"

"You can't. His soul is healing on its own; right now all you can do is let it. He hasn't had any blood in weeks. I promise you, his soul is much improved from when I found the two of you after Lucifer's cage was broken."

Dean snorted. "That's better?"

"Yes, it is." Cas' quiet sincerity made Dean swallow hard, imagining what his brother's soul must have looked like before.

"Any way I can not see it? You know, turn it off?"

"I doubt it. Angels can't, so it stands to reason that you can't either." Cas hesitated before continuing. "But Dean, at the moment, I am more concerned about you."

Dean glanced up at him, startled. "What, don't tell me that's what my soul looks like?"

"No. Your soul is fine. Exactly as before, with a few minor changes. Your eyes, for example. And there's something else, something I'm missing…" Cas stared Dean up and down, giving him the uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed. "Is there anything that feels different to you?"

Dean froze. He knew he should tell Cas about the way Michael seemed to have taken away pieces of him, but at the same time he wanted to deal with it himself. Knowing that the archangel had tampered with his soul, accidentally or not, made it an oddly personal subject for Dean. And if there was one thing Dean hated, it was talking about personal things.  Luckily, he was saved from answering by the porch door banging open loudly.

"Dean?" Bobby came two steps into the room and stopped when he saw Dean sitting on the sofa. "Jesus! Sam wasn't kidding. Those eyes make you look damn creepy."

Dean tried to smirk at him, but it died halfway to his face. It didn't matter though, because Bobby crossed the space between them and folded him into a hug. Dean tensed for a split second, trying to keep it together, then gave up. If he couldn't cry on Bobby's shoulder then he couldn't cry on anyone's. He wrapped his arms around the old man and held on, shoulders shaking as he sobbed noiselessly. All of the relief, all of the worries that he'd had came rushing back with the knowledge that Bobby was okay, and Sam would be at some point, and Cas was still their angel. He let himself go for three minutes, then firmly shoved the lid back on his emotions and shut them away.

Bobby took him by the shoulders and held him in front of him, examining him as though looking for signs of wear and tear. Dean gave a shaky laugh.

"Bobby, I'm fine, honestly. Michael put me back as good as new." Dean sounded as sincere as he could, but Bobby's eyes narrowed.

"Somethin' still ain't right with you boy, I can tell. What else is goin' on?"

Dean shot Cas a questioning look, but he just shrugged. Taking that to mean that his angel-sight wasn't really a secret, he told Bobby about that little-known side effect of arch-angelic possession. When he finished, he heard a noise in the doorway and looked up. To his horror, he realized that Sam had come in at some point and stood there, listening quietly.

"So I guess that explains what you said before, about my face?" Sam had a tight smile on his lips, but Dean could read the hurt and fear in his eyes.  _He thinks I'm going to abandon him again_ , Dean realized. Without hesitating, he levered himself off the sofa, ignoring Bobby's grumble and Cas' warnings not to push himself. He tottered on shaky legs to where his brother still stood, poised in the doorway like a deer about to run.

"Look, Sam, I don't care," he said firmly, grabbing Sam's arm before he could back away. "You're my brother, man, no matter what you look like. It's just another scar, and it'll fade like all the others." Deliberately, he reached up a hand and wiped away a tear from Sam's cheek, ignoring the way his thumb brushed over one of the worst burns. It was all in his head, dammit, and he wasn't going to make Sam feel like a freak again.

Sam swept his brother into a rib-crushing hug that Dean returned as well as he could. "I missed you, Dean," Sam whispered.

"I know, Sammy, I'm sorry. I missed you too." They stood like that for a few seconds longer, until Dean's legs gave out. Sam caught him and hauled him over to the sofa.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was panicky again.

"Yeah, m'fine," Dean mumbled, eyelids drooping. "Just tired." He tried to tell Sam that he loved him, but fell asleep before he could get the words out.

)(

For the next four days Dean did nothing but eat and sleep, although he did relocate from his spot on the couch to the spare room upstairs. Apparently whatever limbo state he'd been in while Michael was putting him back together had not been self-sustaining, and he had almost a week of rest and food consumption to catch up on. He spent his conscious moments talking to Sam, Cas, and Bobby and finding out what had happened after he said yes.

It seemed that Michael had found a way to stop Lucifer from starting the apocalypse without actually torching half the planet, which was quite a shock to all involved. He had also, Dean learned, made Sam officially off-limits to all of the angels, especially the ones who thought that killing Sam would solve all of their problems.

"Son of a bitch, he kept his promises," Dean whispered. Sam didn't hear him, so he didn't have to explain himself, but Dean self-consciously said a little thank you prayer in his head.

All in all, the final showdown had been a little anti-climactic, from what Sam and Bobby could figure. With Michael in his true vessel and Lucifer working from a temporary one, their powers were unevenly matched. Bobby said that a few islands in the central Pacific had been wiped off the map entirely, and there was some flooding in Japan and along the west coast, but other than that almost no human lives were lost. "Like a friggin' miracle," as he put it. The only thing most people saw was a gigantic thunderstorm that took up most of the Pacific ocean and went on for days. The ones who died were those stupid enough to try to sail or fly into it—the burned and shattered wrecks of their boats and planes were found later, drifting aimlessly across the ocean.

"And the day after all that cleared away is when Michael showed up on the doorstep and left you here. And you don't remember any of that?" Bobby's voice was incredulous, but Dean shook his head. By that point, he had been so buried in Michael's Grace that he had barely known his own name, much less what the archangel had been doing with his body at the time.

Cas kept trying to catch Dean alone, probably to talk about the condition of his soul, but Dean pretended to be asleep whenever he came in. He didn't think he was fooling the angel, but at least it let him avoid talking about it.

"It" was still there, though slightly different after food and rest. All the tiny tears in his soul seemed to have mixed together to form one big hole that sat in the pit of his stomach like a rock. When he was alone and couldn't sleep, Dean would probe the edges with his mind, looking for some way to fix himself, some sort of spiritual sutures. He was pretty sure that Cas could fix him if he asked, but Dean didn't know what it would cost him, and he didn't want to take advantage of the angel any more than he already had. Besides, this was his soul, and he could fix it on his own.


	3. —You're Fighting For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For lack of a better term, the shit hits the fan.

As time passed, Dean began to recognize the distracting, all-encompassing emptiness that filled him for what it was. Of course, the last time Dean had been addicted to something it had been an addiction of the flesh, not the soul, but the symptoms were remarkably similar, just exponentially more intense. Except of course, that when he was an alcoholic he knew he should avoid beer. With this, he didn't know what it was he was craving, until the day that Cas appeared in his room.

Dean was strong enough to walk around a little now, so after checking and double-checking that he was going to be okay, Sam and Bobby had driven off in answer to a distress call from Sheriff Mills, promising that they'd be back by sundown. Dean didn't mind; it gave him more time to think. The house was completely silent and empty, which made Cas' unexpected arrival even more startling.

Dean didn't know why Cas had decided to appear directly in his room, maybe to catch him off guard. If so, it worked, and Dean gave a surprised little yelp. Cas' wings were still spread, and as he flapped them the leading edge of the left one slid over Dean's shoulder as he lay on the bed. Slow warmth spread through him, and he couldn't help but let out a small gasp of relief. He could feel the wound inside of him soften, the edges starting to knit together ever so slightly. He reached his hand up towards the feathers, unconsciously needing more.

Cas, who didn't seem to have noticed the contact, began to fold his wings, sending them back into the in-between space where he usually kept them. The feathers started to slide out of Dean's hand and he grabbed at them, suddenly desperate that the comfort they brought not go away. With a twist and a small jerk, the shaft of one feather separated from Cas' wing.

Immediately it dissolved into silver mist, which wreathed across Dean's skin and sank into him. He could feel Cas' Grace healing him, and for the first time since he came back, the underlying feeling of  _needing_  something was gone. To his dismay, it was only for a moment. The last of the feather disappeared, and suddenly Dan was just as empty as before. Worse, because now he'd had a taste of his drug, and he knew the relief it brought.

The instant the feather was torn from his wing, Cas fell over, wings jerking, knocking a book off Dean's bedside table. Dean sat up in alarm, wondering if he should call Sam and Bobby, but the next second the angel was on his feet again, wings drawn close to his body, eyes darting wildly around the room. Dean might have found it funny had he not noticed the gap in Cas' wing, and the sickly red substance that seeped from between the feathers like smoke.

Cas saw it too, and caressed the spot gently, muttering something to himself in a language that Dean recognized as Enochian. His lips moved, and even though he didn't know the individual words, he knew it was a spell of healing. A new feather sprouted from the spot as Cas finished, and he slumped into the chair next to the bed. His face was grayish, and Dean realized that just that small effort had exhausted him.

"Was that you, Dean?" Cas' voice was low, but Dean could detect an undercurrent that made him nervous. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't make himself lie to Cas.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Cas, I didn't mean to hurt you, it was just that you touched my arm with your wing, and it felt so good, and I didn't want it to go, but you started to take it away from me, and…" Dean trailed off, scrubbing his hands in the sheets as if he could somehow wash away what he had done. "It hurts, Cas. I got so used to having Michael and his Grace, and when he left… I need it now. I'm addicted to it. I'm a freaking Grace junkie. I didn't realize it until you came in, but that's what's wrong with me, that's the missing piece that I can't find."

He couldn't bring himself to meet Cas' eyes, so Dean just kept his head down and waited for the disappointment, the anger. His stomach twisted as he remembered his own reaction to Sam and the demon blood. He wouldn't be surprised if Cas just walked out on him right then. Acceptance was more than Dean deserved.

"I'm so sorry, Dean." Cas spoke softly, and Dean couldn't handle the compassion and forgiveness he heard there. He turned his head away, but Cas sat on the bed next to him, invading his personal space. "Let me help you."

Dean could feel the angel's Grace, muted with the wings gone, but still there. He felt like a man sitting by a pool, dying of thirst but knowing that the water was poisoned. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the angel. "Stop it, Cas. That hurt you, just that tiny bit, and it barely did a thing for me. If I took what I need, you would barely have any Grace left. Stop offering me things I can't take."

"No!" The angel's voice was sharp, and Dean was startled into looking up at him. Cas was still pale, but his fists were clenched and a determined light shone in his eyes. "My Grace could possibly regenerate in time, but the same cannot be said for your soul. Why won't you let me help you, Dean? This is going to kill you!"

"Yeah well, I'm not gonna let it kill you too!"

Cas tensed, and for a moment Dean thought he was going to hit him. Instead, the angel gave a weird shiver, and his wings unfurled again, filling the room with shadows and power. The intensity of the Grace in the room tripled, and Dean involuntarily reached for the nearer wing before he could stop himself.

"It's alright, Dean." Cas began to wrap his wings around Dean, carefully encasing him in a cage of ebony feathers. "I'm just trying to save you."

Dean broke out in a cold sweat as the emptiness in his soul yawned wider, responding to the proximity of Cas' grace. He forced his body to curl up, keeping himself away from the wings that closed in around him. If he touched the wings again he wouldn't be able to keep from taking as much as he could from the angel, and he was afraid of what would be left if he did. He could barely breathe, but he managed to gasp, "Cas, don't. Please!"

The angel hesitated, and Dean lay on the bed, shaking and wanting and hating himself for it. It took every ounce of self control Dean had ever learned to stop himself from taking hold of Cas' wings, from tearing them apart to ease the pain in his soul.

"Get away from me, Castiel." Dean felt the angel flinch at his full name, and hoped that his answering flinch was lost in his shaking. "This is just an addiction, like any other, and I am officially going cold turkey. So just stay the _hell_  away from me!"

"Dean, I'm sorry, I was only—" Cas' voice was small and confused, but Dean cut him off mid-sentence.

"I don't care, Cas. Get out!" Dean's voice broke on the last word, and he buried his face in his arms, every muscle taut. Cas stepped back and vanished without another word, and Dean's soul ached as the Grace went with him. He lay where he was, trying to convince himself that the pain was the only reason tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

)(

From then on, Cas avoided Dean like the plague. Dean told himself that it was for the best and pretended that the hole inside of him was closing on its own. Sam didn't say a word, but Dean could feel him radiating disapproval every time Dean walked into a room and Cas walked out.

Sam and Dean got back into their usual hunting routines, with only a few minor changes. Dean discovered that his new eyes tended to unnerve people, so Sam did most of the live interviews while Dean stayed in the car or the motel, researching. It drove him crazy, but he didn't really have a choice. On the bright side, demons were a lot less trouble than they had been; with Dean now able to ID them at a safe distance, the Winchesters didn't have to worry about surprise betrayals from people they thought they could trust. During the day, when he was hunting things and saving people again, Dean could almost convince himself that the apocalypse hadn't really changed a thing.

At night however, it was a different story. His close encounter with Cas had just intensified the loss he felt, and while he slept nightmares crept out of the dark places in his mind to torment him. Dreams of places he hadn't ever been to, of battles he had never fought, haunted him, all full of fire and lightning and the inexorable press of Michael's Grace. Sometimes Dean won the battles, but many times he lost, and the lightning tore through him and seared his eyes until he thought it would burn him to dust and nothing would be left.

Every morning, Dean woke in a cold sweat, staring around wildly as he fought to remember the here and now. Each time, he would drag himself to the sink, splash cold water on his face and then stare his reflection in the eye, trying to convince himself that he was getting better. The emptiness behind the silver gaze belied him, but he ignored it.

The situation continued for another week and a half, with Dean's nightmares getting worse and Cas still avoiding him whenever Sam and Dean came back to Bobby's, which wasn't often. Dean felt as if he were rushing towards something, some climactic event that would shake him out of the rut he was in. Stubbornly, he told himself that it was a good thing, the breaking point of his addiction and the start of recovery. His subconscious warned him that it could be something worse.

The day that everything went to pieces started just as painfully as usual. Dean clawed his way out of a dream where he was still in Hell, tearing Castiel's wings off as the angel struggled on the rack. Stumbling into the motel bathroom, he retched until there was nothing left to vomit up. When the shaking stopped he got dressed, skipping his usual staring match; he just couldn't find the energy to lie to himself today. To his surprise, Sam was sitting up in bed when he came out of the bathroom. To Dean's dismay, Sam was wearing "the look" that he always saved for serious conversations.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam's voice was deceptively innocent. Dean turned his back on him and started rummaging through his duffel.

"Yeah, fine. What's the case?"

"It's just that you've been having nightmares," Sam continued, ignoring him.  "Ever since you and Cas started avoiding each other. And since this is the first time you've actually thrown up afterwards, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that whatever's wrong with you is getting worse." Dean cringed inwardly. He really didn't want to have this conversation.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Sam. I'm fine. Probably just had some bad Chinese food last night."

"Don't give me that crap, Dean!" Sam got up from the bed and began pacing. Dean tried to speak again but Sam cut him off, stopping directly in front of his brother and looming ominously. "Don't you dare tell me it's nothing. I've  _been_  the junkie, remember? I know how it feels, Dean, and I know what it looks like." The scars on his soul cast ugly shadows across his face. "I'm not an idiot. Whatever you've got in your system, it's not getting better on its own. You need to ask Cas for help."

Dean stared his brother in the eye, wanting to scream or cry or maybe just try to explain himself, but he couldn't find the right words. Finally he settled for, "you done?" Shoving roughly past Sam, Dean tossed his bag onto the bed and dropped down next to it. He jerked his shotgun out of the duffel and started breaking it down, refusing to meet his brother's gaze.

Sam watched Dean sadly for a moment before turning away. "Yeah, Dean, I'm done." The note of disappointment in his voice cut at Dean, but he ignored it like he ignored the pain from his wounded soul. A tense silence filled the room as Dean finished checking his gear and Sam showered and got dressed.

"So, what's the case?" Dean finally asked again.

For a moment, he thought Sam might not answer, but then he grunted, "Just your basic salt and burn. The spirit of a former psychotherapist started killing people when they tried to renovate her hospital. She's buried in a graveyard next to the hospital. The whole thing's pretty open and shut."

Dean read over the email that was open on Sam's computer. "Yeah, except for the part where she's been seen guarding her own grave from trespassers."

"Well that's why you're going to distract her when she shows up, so I've got time to gank her." When Dean raised an eyebrow, Sam suggested cautiously, "hey, if you're not feeling up to it we can wait." Sam shrugged as Dean scowled angrily. "Fine, then let's go." He grabbed his laptop and left without another word.

"I've got a really bad feeling about this," Dean muttered as he followed his brother out of the room.

)(

"I told you I had a bad feeling about this!" Dean yelled, firing another load of rock salt into the oncoming ghost, which shrieked and vanished.

"I'm almost there, Dean; just hold her off a little longer!" Sam was shoveling furiously, dirt flying out of the hole around him. Dean heard the shovel hit something wooden, and he wanted to cheer. Unfortunately, the return of the crazed ghost kept him busy as she swooped at his face. He swung the shotgun around, trying to intercept, but it was too fast for him. The spirit smashed into him and he lost his grip on the gun, tumbling to the ground.

"Shit! Any day now, Sam!" Dean yelled, rolling onto his back and looking around frantically for his shotgun. He caught sight of it, but before he could move the ghost descended on him, pinning him to the ground. It leered at him, an eerie intelligence in its wild eyes.

"Your soul."

Dean almost leapt out of his skin when the thing spoke. He had thought coherent words were beyond whatever passed for its thought processes, but apparently he was wrong.

"Look at that, look at that, there's a hole. A hole in your soul," the woman's raspy, sing-song voice made Dean's skin crawl.

"Sam!" he yelled, but the ghost shook its head.

"Ah ah ah! You've got a hole in your soul, Sir. Can't let you go like that, Sir, oh no, Sir." A devilish grin split the spirit's face. "Got to fix you up, Sir. Make that hole nice and whole. Now just hold still, Sir!" the next moment, the ghost plunge both of its hands into Dean's chest up to the wrist and began to pull.

Dean screamed so loudly that his throat tore and he tasted blood. The pain was indescribable, nearly intolerable, and as Dean remembered the last time he had hurt this much imaginary flames flickered in his vision. It felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside out, and Dean wished he would pass out just to make it stop.

Over the rushing in his ears he heard Sam call his name, and the imaginary hell-flames were replaced by the glow of real fire as a lighter was tossed onto dry bones. The spirit shrieked, ripping its hands out of Dean, and turned on Sam. Its edges were already burning though, and it flared up and disappeared with another horrible cry before it reached him.

"Dean!" Sam was by his side in seconds, shaking him. "Dean, what the hell just happened?" Dean felt oddly disconnected, as though the link between his brain and his body was loose. He tried to tell Sam that he would be fine in a minute, but his mouth refused to move.

Suddenly, something at the core of his being collapsed with a resounding snap that Dean thought must have been physically audible. He felt himself being swept away on a tide of pain and oblivion as the space inside him that he had been struggling to ignore opened up. As the black hole that his soul had become sucked his consciousness away, Dean's last thought was that at least he hadn't taken Cas down with him.


	4. Well baby you are all that I adore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is lost, and Cas has to find him before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and we'll get back to his POV as soon as possible. ~beeeeep~

Castiel knew something was wrong the moment the Impala roared into the yard. Sam was driving, and he pulled up almost to the porch before throwing the car into neutral and slamming on the parking brake.

"Cas!" He yelled, but the angel was already there.

"Where's Dean?"

"Backseat. Give me a hand?" Sam flung open the car door and dragged his brother out by the arms. Dean's entire body was jerking and shaking as if he was having a seizure, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. Castiel grabbed Sam and Dean by a shoulder each and took off, flying them to Dean's bedroom in an instant.

"What happened?" Castiel watched anxiously as Sam gently lowered his brother to the bed. He looked Dean up and down, searching for any blood or other physical injury, but he looked fine.

"We were hunting a ghost two towns over, and it got the drop on him. I burned its bones, but it did something to him first. From what I saw, it had its hands buried in his chest. I thought he just passed out from exhaustion or whatever, but about fifteen minutes ago he started convulsing like that." As Sam spoke, Castiel ripped Dean's shirt open, exposing a large, ugly bruise over his heart. He ignored the physical damage and looked deeper, examining Dean's soul for the first time since their encounter weeks earlier. The blood drained from his face, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Cas, what's wrong with him?"

Castiel thought for a moment. "Sam, do you remember when Dean and Bobby locked you in the panic room?"

"Yeah, they were trying to detox me from the demon blood, which for your information hurt like a bitch." his eyes widened. "Is that what's happening to Dean right now?"

"I believe that in a sense it is similar."

"What the hell is he even detoxing  _from_?"

Castiel hesitated, but Dean had been given plenty of opportunities to explain his situation to his brother before this. Now Castiel had no choice but to explain the best he could. "I believe that Dean is suffering from an addiction, in a sense, of the soul. It is similar to your addiction to demon blood, but instead of blood, Dean is addicted to Grace."

Sam slowly dropped into a chair, staring at Castiel. Finally he shook his head with a sigh. "I don't know how anything surprises me anymore. So do we wait until it clears out of his system, if that's even possible?"

"I am not sure, as this is the first instance of such a thing that I have ever heard of. Perhaps we could have, if the dependence had been less severe. However, Michael's grace consumed a sizeable portion of Dean's soul, and now his spirit is collapsing in on itself. He is trying and failing to make up for the lack, and it's killing him." Castiel stared and Dean's pinched, care-worn face. He was reasonably sure that Dean would never forgive him for what he was about to do, but he saw no other solution.

"Is there anything you can do?" Sam's voice was pained, and Castiel realized how difficult it must be for Sam, to get his brother back against all odds and then lose him again.

"It may be possible for me to save his life, but…"

"But?"

"I've fallen from Heaven, Sam. That means that the connection that all angels have, the font of Grace that replenishes us, is gone. I can't just recharge my Grace, and the amount that Dean is going to need to fix his soul… I'm not sure I can give it to him."

The only sound in the room was Dean's labored breathing. Sam watched his brother shake and twitch, and Castiel kept silent. A part of him was hoping that Sam could make the decision for him, but he knew that in the end it was his own choice. Dean's convulsions intensified and then abruptly ceased. For a moment Castiel was afraid that he had stopped breathing, but he could still see the faint rise and fall of Dean's chest. He knew that if he was going to try and save Dean, he would have to start now.

"Sam, please leave."

Sam looked up at Castiel, startled. "What? No Cas, I can't let you do this."

"If I don't, Dean will die."

"But you said it might kill you! Look, maybe if you leave him alone he'll snap out of it. You said this sort of thing has never happened before, didn't you?"

Castiel couldn't help but smile at Sam. His understanding of the younger Winchester had grown tremendously from that first glimpse that Uriel had shown him so long ago. Sam had gone from being an unknown, possibly dangerous human to being one of the most loyal friends Castiel had ever known. He was more than a friend, he was a brother, and the thought filled Castiel with determination.

"Sacrificing myself to save Dean? I guess that just proves that I really am a Winchester at heart." Sam's eyes widened, but before he could do or say anything else, Castiel gently touched the center of his forehead with the tips of two fingers and sent him away. Not very far, only to the next town over from Bobby's, but it would give Castiel enough time to do what he had to.

Carefully removing his coat, Castiel folded it neatly and set it on the chair near the bed. Climbing up beside Dean, he straddled the other man's limp form, pinning his arms as he twitched weakly. The physical contact enhanced Castiel's perception of Dean's soul, and he gazed once again at the destruction Michael had caused.

Castiel hadn't seen the state of Dean's physical body after the hellhounds dragged him to Hell, but he imagined it would have looked similar to Dean's spirit now. His entire torso from hip to shoulder was torn open, as though something had exploded out of him with terrifying force. His ribcage was a splintered wreck, jagged edges of bone poking through the raw flesh. The rest of his abdomen was shredded as if by claws, and the bloody curves of Dean's organs were visible. Ethereal blood oozed from the damaged area and dissipated into nothingness as it left his body.

Fighting back the very human desire to vomit, Castiel watched with a sick fascination as Dean's exposed heart fluttered weakly in his shattered chest. Castiel wanted nothing more that to heal Dean's injuries with a touch of his hand, but these wounds were not physical and Castiel knew it would take more than a thought to fix this. Sitting back, he stared blankly at the wall, thinking. He had known that Dean's soul was injured upon his return from Michael's company, but it hadn't been this bad or Dean would have been unable to function long before this.

_The ghost_ , he realized.  _It must have somehow augmented the damage that was already here_. Castiel swallowed hard. The amount of Grace that he would need to heal something this large would be all that he had, possibly more. And if Dean needed more than he could give, then they would both die.

Dean moaned, and Castiel looked down at him. His eyes were open and glassy, and Castiel could practically feel the heat radiating off his skin as his fever spiked. The damage to Dean's soul was taking its toll on his physical body, and he probably didn't have much longer on his own.

"Cas." The word was less than a whisper, but the angel heard it all the same. Hearing his name on Dean's lips banished the last of Castiel's doubts. He loved this man, this hunter, and he would do anything for him, even if it meant even certain death.

Castiel shook out his wings, then hesitated. For the transfer of his Grace to be effective, he would need to be in physical contact with as much of Dean as he could. Stripping off his shirt and pants, he did the same for Dean. Clad only in boxers, he lay next to Dean, taking him into his arms and wrapping his wings around them both. The hunter was shaking, so Castiel held him tighter and made soothing noises in his ear. Only half-sure of what he was doing, Castiel began to hum a tune no human had ever heard, one sung by the choirs of heaven alone. As he did, he reached for Dean's consciousness with his own. Castiel's goal was not possession, but rather synchronization between them, an alignment of his Grace and Dean's soul.

Castiel felt the shift in his surroundings as he slipped into Dean's fever dreams, and opened his eyes. He was still lying on the bed in Bobby's spare room, but Dean was gone and Castiel was fully clothed again. Rising, he carefully padded down the stairs, all senses alert. He was in Dean's mind now, and the rules here were whatever Dean thought they should be. As he came to the kitchen door he heard voices, and froze instinctively.

"I didn't know you could cook, Jo." It was such a relief to hear Dean's voice that Cas almost rushed into the room. Then the actual words registered, and he frowned. Jo? As in Jo Harvelle? The girl who had died in their first attack on Lucifer?

"Yeah, I'm pretty good at it." Jo's voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness. "I was good at a lot of things, Dean. You never knew about most of them though. Guess you were too busy hunting and treating me like a kid to get to know me."

"Jo, I'm sorry. It's my fault you died." As Dean spoke, Castiel cautiously peered around the corner. Jo and Dean sat facing each other across the dining room table, a still warm apple pie between them. Neither noticed the angel standing quietly in the doorway.

"Damn right it's your fault!" Jo was angry now, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. "I loved you Dean. I would have done anything for you, and you knew it." She stood and started to back away from the table. Blood began to seep from her stomach, staining her white tank top crimson. "You used me as bait! you knew those things would kill me!" she screamed.

"No! Jo, I didn't!" Dean leapt out of his chair, but with one last accusatory glare Jo vanished. Dean stood alone in the kitchen, the metallic smell of blood mingling with the aroma of cooling pie. Castiel stepped into the room hesitantly, unsure if he should approach or not. Slowly Dean reached into his pocket, and to Castiel's shock he drew out a pistol. With shaking hands, Dean pulled back the hammer and lifted the gun to his temple.

"Dean, No!" Castiel cried, horrorstruck. The other man spun around, eyes wide, gun falling from his hand.

"Cas? What are you doing here?" Dean's voice was panicky, and he backed away from Castiel as far as the small kitchen would allow. "Stay away, I'll hurt you!"

"Dean, It's alright!" Castiel took a step closer and the room buckled around him, walls and ceiling warped and twisting. Castiel realized that Dean's subconscious was trying to push him away, and he lunged for Dean, grabbing his arm. Dean jerked away from him and disappeared, and Castiel was left standing in the empty kitchen, clutching an empty jacket.

He didn't move for a minute, fighting back the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. How was he supposed to help Dean if he couldn't get near him? Dropping into one of the chairs at the table, he rolled up the jacket and held it to his chest. Breathing in Dean's comforting scent, he wondered what else he was supposed to do.


	5. If Love is What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't know how he got here, but that doesn't surprise him. He doesn't know much of anything.

Dean opened his eyes with a gasp, sweat standing out on his face. He had been dreaming, he knew, but there was something different this time. There had been a new person there, someone else from before the hospital.

"How are you feeling today?" Dean looked up as a nurse came into his room. he sat up in bed, wishing he had real clothes to wear like the ones in his dream instead of the white hospital scrubs they had given him. He mumbled something positive sounding, and the nurse smiled. "That's good. The doctor will be in soon. Why don't you try to write down anything else you've remembered in your notebook, okay?" The nurse gave Dean one more smile and left him alone again.

Dean picked up the pen and notebook that sat on his bedside table and flipped to the next free page. He stared for a moment, trying to decide what to write. Finally, he scrawled, "Dreamed of Jo again. Says I killed her." He hesitated, unwilling to write down the second part of his dream. But his therapist would squeeze it out of him whether he wrote it down or not, so finally he printed "New memory: Cas. Bluest eyes. Friend?" underneath. He flipped through the rest of the pages, glancing at the other entries, but after a while he gave up and shut the notebook. Time passed, and he started to hope that perhaps the doctor wouldn't come today.

"Good morning Dean. How was your night?" Dean tensed unconsciously as his therapist breezed into the room, clipboard in hand.

"Hello Doctor-"

"Dean, please!" The man interrupted smoothly. "I've asked you before, call me Alistair. I'd like it if you saw me as your friend, not your doctor."

"Right." Dean swallowed nervously. "Um, my night was fine."

"Any more dreams? remember anything else?"

Dean clenched his notebook to his chest. "Look, doctor-"

"Alistair," the man corrected firmly.

"-Alistair, can we not talk today? I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it." Alistair was shaking his head before Dean even finished speaking, and Dean's heart sank. It had been worth a try at least.

"I'm afraid not Dean. It is essential that you confront who you were before you can move on to who you are now. That means accepting the bad as well as the good. Now-" he pried the notebook out of Dean's fingers and flipped to his entries from that morning. "I see you dreamed about Jo again. Was she your friend? Girlfriend? Lover?"

Dean closed his eyes, unwilling to respond, but Alistair gripped his chin and twisted his face around, forcing Dean to look at him. "This is very important, Dean. Who was this Jo? you have to remember now."

"She's just a friend, I think." Memories surfaced of a pretty blonde girl with a bad attitude, laughing at something Dean had said. "Maybe… I don't know. Maybe she was more. maybe she could have been more."

"But she's dead, isn't she?" Alistair's voice was full of compassion that Dean knew was faked. "Do you remember why?"

"No, I don't. Aargh!" Dean cried out as Alistair's fingers dug into the exposed flesh of his throat.

"You're lying," the man crooned in Dean's ear. "We aren't going to be able to make any progress if you lie to me, Dean."

"Yes," Dean groaned. "yes, I remember a little. I did something stupid, and she died because of me. It's my fault." This seemed to satisfy the doctor for the moment, and he released Dean and sat back in his chair. Slowly, he perused Dean's other entries.

"It seems to me Dean that there are a lot of people who've died because of you. Jo, Ellen, Ash. Your own father. It makes me think that you weren't such a good person before you lost your memory. and of course there's you little brother, what's his name?" Alastair flipped to the first page. "That's right, Sam." the way the man said the name made Dean's skin crawl. "Don't you think, if you were the least bit kind, then your own brother would have come to see you in the hospital?"

Dean clenched his jaw, refusing to break down in front of the therapist. Through clenched teeth, he gritted out, "I thought doctors were supposed to help people."

"Dean, Dean, I am helping you." Alistair's slow drawl seemed to crawl into Dean's brain, and he shook his head, trying to make it go away. "I'm helping you realize how much of a screw-up you really are. You're a monster Dean, and once you've accepted that, I'll let you out of here." Alistair stood, and for a moment Dean's heart leapt. Maybe he hadn't seen it, that last entry printed so small at the bottom of the last page. Then the doctor's eyes narrowed, and Dean's stomach twisted.

"Cas?" Alistair's voice was dangerously calm. "Who's this Cas, Dean? you didn't tell me about him."

"I don't know, I don't remember him very well. I think he was just a friend." it was the wrong thing to say. in an instant, Alistair had Dean by the neck, pinning him to the wall.

"You don't have friends, Dean. Everything you touch dies. You can't afford friends. Keep that in mind." Alistair dropped Dean and the notebook on the bed and swept out the door, turning at the last second. "I'm going to schedule you for some more shock therapy, Dean. It'll help you remember things properly." The door slammed heavily behind him, and Dean heard the lock click shut.

Dean lay on his bed, massaging his throat as he fought away the fear that Alistair's final words had instilled in him. He hated this place, hated how he had woken up here with no memory, hated how the only things he had been able to remember since were people he had failed somehow. Glancing at the door to make sure Alistair or the nurse wasn't about to walk in, he reached into the elastic band of his sock and drew out a tiny glass vial.

The little bottle was full of a clear fluid, and it had a tiny tag around the neck that read "If you need to get out -Michael". Dean didn't know how the hospital staff had missed it when they checked him in, or even who Michael was, but he knew what the liquid was for.

He pulled out the cork, catching a faint whiff of bitter almonds as he did so. Lifting the vial to eye-level, he glared at the poison inside, wishing he had the guts to drink it. The more he learned about himself the less he wanted to know. His father was dead because of him, and if his brother was alive he clearly didn't want anything to do with Dean. Every day Alistair tortured him with subtle accusations and veiled implications, telling him that he was cruel, that anyone that got too close to him died, that he was somehow responsible for it all. And every day Alistair's story seemed more and more likely.

_Just knock it back_ , he told himself.  _It's just like doing shots, and you know you're good at those_. Dean was just about to put the vial to his lips when he saw the notebook on his bed. it had fallen open, and the name "Cas" stared up at him in bold black ink.  _Cas_. Dean thought of his dream, how for once someone had looked at him with something other than disgust or anger. Cas, whoever he was, had been worried for Dean, he was sure of it, had actually cared what happened to him. Dean's hand shook, and he capped the vial again before he could spill it.

"Three days," he whispered to himself. "If he doesn't find me in the next three days, I'll drink it." Sliding the bottle back into his sock, he lay down on his side, holding the notebook close to his heart. He ran his fingers over the name again and again, until the ink blurred and he fell asleep again.


	6. A Soldier I Will Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean isn't sure if he believes this man who claims to remember him, but he desperately wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, this was like, the second fic I ever wrote; I forgot how awful my writing was. Please be kind, and ignore the lack of proper characterization!!

Castiel sat at the table for what felt like hours, head bent over Dean's jacket. He couldn't understand why Dean was afraid of him, how he had vanished like that, and how Castiel was supposed to find him. He had assumed that Dean would want to be saved, but what if he didn't? Did Castiel have the right to force him to live?

With bitter amusement he remembered his words to Sam.  _I really am a Winchester at heart_. In the past he had viewed the brothers' devotion to each other as an unhealthy obsession, but now he saw things from their point of view. Sam and Dean needed each other to survive; one without the other inevitably lead to self-destruction for the survivor. Castiel came to the conclusion that, since his fall, Dean had become his reason to live. And he would do anything to bring him back, because if Dean died and Castiel lived, he might as well die too.

_I need you Dean_ , Castiel thought as hard as he could.  _I need you, and you need me. Now help me find you!_

The door to the kitchen closed with a snap, and Castiel looked up, startled. He was still alone in the room. Carefully, he tucked Dean's jacket into the inner pocket of his coat and inspected the door. It looked the same, but when he rested a hand on it, he felt a faint warmth under his fingertips. Castiel was suddenly certain that Dean was somewhere on the other side, and without hesitation he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

To his slight surprise, the door opened onto a long white hallway, one that most definitely had not been there before. As he crossed the threshold, the comforting aroma of pie was replaced by the sterile scent of cleaning products that Castiel associated with his time in the hospital. Cautiously, he moved down the hall, nerves on edge. He was sure that Dean had brought him here as a cry for help, but he was also afraid of the other things that might be lurking in the dark corners of Dean's mind.

At the end of the hall Castiel came to a single, unmarked door, and he knew without a doubt that Dean was waiting for him on the other side. Castiel gave himself a moment to prepare, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

 

Dean heard the knob turn and sat up in bed, hastily shoving Michael's poison back into its hiding spot. He waited, nerves stretched almost to breaking, for Alistair to walk into the room and torment him once more. It was the third morning since he'd made the promise with himself, and he was losing hope.

He'd had no more dreams of the man he called Cas, even though he had fallen asleep thinking of him every night, wondering where he was. The only people who visited him in his dreams were his brother and his father, dreams where Dean was forced to watch them die over and over again. He couldn't tell if they were memories or nightmares, but it didn't matter. Either way, they were just more ammunition for Alistair. Dean knew the man would pry the stories out of him and twist them until Dean couldn't help but wonder if he was right, if Dean really was worthless. The door swung open, and Dean shrank back as far as he could.

The man who walked in was not Alistair, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief before he could stop himself. A sharp blue gaze swept around the room and settled on his face, and Dean stared back, unable to take his eyes off the unexpected visitor. The trenchcoat, the crooked tie, the cropped black hair, they were all so wonderfully familiar to him that for a moment he thought he might cry from relief.

"Cas?" Dean whispered the name disbelievingly as the man slipped fully into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Dean?" The man took a few steps toward the bed then stopped, suddenly wary. "Is that really you?"

"Oh my god you're real. You remember me, you came to find me!" Dean hadn't meant to say it out loud, but the words slipped out anyway. He hadn't realized how much the uncertainty of Cas' existence had been weighing on him until the man was standing in front of him. Cas had an odd look on his face, and Dean was suddenly afraid he'd said something wrong.

"Of course I remember you, Dean. Why would I not?" Cas took a step closer, tilting his head to the side in a way that Dean knew he always did. "What happened to you, Dean? Why are you here?"

Dean looked away, trying to control his suddenly panicky breathing. What if Cas left him once he figured out Dean had amnesia? Or worse, what if he used Dean's own memories against him like Alistair? The bed shifted slightly as Cas sat down on the edge of it.

"Dean, It'll be okay, I promise. You can tell me." Cas reached out and took Dean's hand. The unexpected contact was so soft and gentle, so understanding, that Dean found the courage to speak.

"Cas, I- I don't remember a whole lot about before I came here. Actually, I only remember a couple of people. You, Sam, my dad." Dean swallowed hard. "Jo, Ellen, Ash. Jess."

Cas squeezed his hand gently. "Do you remember anything else? Like what happened to you that made you come here?"

"No." Again, Dean couldn't stop the words spilling from his lips. "Cas, did I really let them all die? Is it my fault?" Cas' eyes widened, and he leaned towards Dean earnestly.

"Dean, none of it was your fault! Don't blame yourself for their deaths; there was nothing you could have done for any of them."

It felt like someone had punched Dean in the stomach. "So they're dead? All of them?"

Cas nodded solemnly. "Except for Sam." Dean brightened. "Your brother is fine, Dean, he's alive and well and waiting for you to come home."

Joy filled Dean, but the happiness was tempered by confusion. "But, if Sam's alright, why didn't he come to get me before now?" Dean hung his head. "he probably blames me-"

Cas cut him off. "Dean, it's not that. Sam would have come for you if he could, but… Sam can't get here." Cas focused his too blue eyes on Dean's face, and Dean's breath caught at the concern in their depths. "Try to remember what happened to you Dean. It's important."

Dean shrank away, tugging his hand from Cas' grip. "I can't!" Panic bled into his voice, and Cas gave him a confused look. "What if I was a bad person? I don't want to remember if I really killed all of those people!"

"Dean, I already told you that you're innocent." Cas reached out for him again, but Dean pushed his hand away.

"Yeah well he says that I'm not!" the words hung in the air for a moment, and Dean clasped his hand over his mouth, waiting for Alistair to storm into the room and demand an explanation for the noise.

"Who, Dean?" Cas' voice was puzzled.

"The doctor. My  _therapist_ ," Dean replied bitterly. As if the words had summoned him, the door flew open and Alistair stormed in.

Cas leapt to his feet and planted himself between Dean and the doorway. "You!" he snarled, and to Dean's complete amazement, a strange silver sword seemed to materialize in his hand. "You have no place here demon. Begone!"

"Hang on, you know him?" Dean was shocked.

He hadn't thought it possible, but Cas tensed even more, half turning to Dean while keeping his eyes fixed on Alistair. "Yes, Dean, as do you."

Dean looked back and forth between the two men. "Well, yeah," he said, nonplussed. "He's my doctor."

"No, I mean you know him from before. Alistair was the one who took charge of your soul when you were in Hell." Cas' words triggered something in Dean's head and he gasped as a wave of new images flitted through his mind. Sam getting shot, a kiss from a woman with red eyes, a pair of huge black dogs that leapt on him and tore him to shreds. Dean buried his head in his hands, trying to figure out what it all meant.

"That's enough out of you," Alistair hissed, looming menacingly over Cas. "Visiting hours are over, now get out." He turned his chill gaze to Dean. "He is right though, you went to Hell. And do you know why?"

"To save his brother." The certainty in Cas' voice made Dean look up at him, startled.

"Liar!" Alistair snarled. "Dean was in Hell because he deserved it." He swiped at Cas with a blade of his own, an old straight razor with stains in the handle and a glittering blade that looked deadly sharp. Cas parried with his own short sword and called back over his shoulder.

"Dean, you're running out of time! You have to remember who you are. None of this is real, not the hospital and not Alistair, but you're the only one who can make it stop!" Cas risked a glance at him, and Dean was overwhelmed by the trust in his eyes. "I'll be here for you Dean, no matter what. So remember!"

"I said get out!" Alistair charged Cas, forcing him to the side and away from Dean's bed. Dean watched in horror as the two men traded blows, afraid that Cas would lose and terrified that he might win. Cas' words drifted through his mind like a chant.  _None of this is real_. But how could that be? Dean sat frozen on the bed, unable to move as the fight played out in front of him.

Cas seemed to sense his indecision. Forcing Alistair back for a moment, he reached into his long coat with a free hand and threw something at Dean. Reflexively, Dean put up his hands, and something soft thudded into them. When he spread it out, he realized that it was a jacket, warm from Cas' body heat and worn from use. His mind flashed back to his dream, and he gasped. This was the jacket he had been wearing when he met Cas, the one that the man had pulled off of him in his dream just before he woke. It was impossible for it to be here. A dream was a dream, right?

_Unless all of this really is in your head_. Dean clenched his jaw, fingers tightening in the fabric of the very real coat. Closing his eyes, Dean tried as hard as he could to remember, starting with Cas. He tuned out all of the sounds of fighting and just concentrated single-mindedly on who Cas was.

_Cas. Cas is short for something, short for Castiel. Castiel, an angel of the lord. A real angel, with wings. Why do I have an angel?_  Alistair growled fiercely, and the sound triggered another flood of memories. _Giant black dogs coming for him, not dogs though, hounds. Hellhounds. Hellhounds that dragged me to Hell because I brought Sammy back._ Like a dark wave, all of Dean's memories of Hell crashed down on him, smothering him.  _But Castiel rescued me. He rescued me from_ him _!_  His eyes flew open as everything that had been done to him there and everything that he had done came back to him.

"You," he gasped at Alistair. "you can't be here, you're dead!"

With a terrible strength, the demon picked Castiel up and threw him across the room, where his head hit the wall with a crack. Dazed, the angle crumpled to the floor. In the next second Alistair was beside Dean, pinning him to the wall with an arm across his windpipe.

"Come on Dean-o, this is just getting fun! I may be dead out there but in here?" The demon leaned close to Dean, breath blisteringly hot on his face. "In here I've got all the time in the world." Dean whimpered involuntarily, newly restored memory providing him with examples of just what Alistair liked to do when he had the time.

"Dean, he's not real!" At Cas' words, Alistair's grin twisted into an ugly scowl.

"I thought I had shut you up, little angel." Dropping Dean, Alistair stalked across the room, blade in hand. "Time to silence you for good." Alistair grabbed Cas' hair, forcing his head back until his bare throat was exposed.

Dean huddled on the bed, unable to look away.  _He's not real_ , he thought frantically.  _This isn't real_.

"You sir? You sir? How about a shave?" Alistair sang gleefully, lifting his razor to the angel's quivering skin.

"It's not real, this isn't real," Dean whispered, forcing himself to  _believe_  it. For a moment everything, including Alistair, flickered, like a scratched DVD. The demon froze, whipping his head around to stare at Dean.

"Don't you dare, boy!"

Dean ignored the menace in his voice and closed his eyes, rocking back and forth. "This is all in my head. Alistair is dead, this isn't real." His voice rose to a shout. "You aren't real!"

Silence filled the room, and Dean opened his eyes cautiously. Alistair was gone completely, banished back to Dean's memories.


	7. I Don't Care if Heaven Won't Take Me Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair may be gone, but Dean isn't out of the woods—er, mental hospital?—yet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swapping between Dean and Cas now, because I can. Thank you for reading; don't forget to review if you liked it (or hated it)!

 

Castiel stood shakily, wiping a trickle of blood from the side of his neck were Alistair had begun to cut.

Walking over to Dean, he helped the hunter to his feet, smiling gently. "Thank you, Dean. You saved my life."

"Yeah, I guess. But we're still here, wherever this is. I thought you said it would go away once I remembered?" Dean sounded confused, but nothing like the pathetic, terrified creature that Castiel had found upon entering the room. Still, Castiel wanted to be sure.

"What is the last thing you remember, Dean?"

"I'm not sure. I was planning to say yes to Michael. I even gave you and Sam the slip and found a deserted alley to call him in. And then… that's when I woke up here." Dean flashed Castiel a guilty look. "I'm sorry Cas, I was gonna make Michael promise to tell you what happened."

Castiel contemplated faking anger, but found he couldn't. He had gotten over it after three weeks of wondering whether Dean was even alive or not. "Look, we can talk about this after I get you out of here."  _If I get you out of here_. Castiel came to the sudden realization that this might very well be the last time he ever spoke to Dean. He paused for a moment, wondering if there was something he could say, something he should say. The last time he had been facing death, it had been unexpected, too fast for much more than a hasty goodbye. Now that he had the time, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Dean was staring at him curiously, and Castiel blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

"I'm sorry Dean." A moment later he wished he hadn't spoken, as Dean's eyes narrowed.

"For what? Cas, what aren't you telling me?"

Castiel wilted under Dean's gaze, and felt ridiculous for doing so. He was an angel of the lord, and he had borne the gaze of things far greater and more terrible than Dean Winchester. But then, he realized, he wasn't really an angel anymore, and Dean  _was_  great. Dean continued to glare, and Castiel decided to tell him the truth, if not all of it. He was determined that his last words to Dean would not be lies.

"Dean, you don't remember this yet, but you did say yes to Michael. You were his vessel for weeks, and he stopped the apocalypse with minimal bloodshed, all thanks to you. However, when he returned to Heaven, your psyche was… somewhat battered. Sam and I have been trying to take care of you, but your condition worsened and you slipped into a sort of coma."

"You're saying I put myself in a mental hospital in my own head?" Dean's voice was tinged with disbelief, but when Castiel nodded he seemed to accept the answer. "That still doesn't explain why you're apologizing."

"I'm apologizing for not being able to help you sooner." it was the truth, at least partially. It might never have become such a life-or-death situation if Castiel had healed Dean the first time, ignoring his protests. But, as Castiel remembered Bobby saying once, "no use crying over spilled whiskey, idjits."

Castiel was startled to see a pained expression cross Dean's face. "Cas—you don't have to apologize. You never have to apologize. All I do is treat you like shit, and you still came to save me from myself. So just… let's just get out of here, okay?"

Castiel swallowed and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Not trusting himself to tell Dean that he wanted to always be there to save him, to say that Dean's mere existence had kept him fighting when he would have long since given up. He didn't trust himself to tell Dean he loved him in a way that he had never quite loved anyone before, not even his brothers and sisters in Heaven. So he smiled shakily at Dean and hoped that the hunter would realize it later. Once he was gone.

Dean smiled back, then frowned, wincing. "Ow. Damn, that feels strange. I think I'm remembering more." He looked down at his chest, and to Castiel's horror gashes began to open, one after the other, just as Dean's had looked in the real world. Castiel realized that his time was up. "What the hell..?"

Quickly Castiel crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Dean's forehead, wrapping the other around his bicep in the same place that he had gripped him that first time, in Hell. Dean was gasping now, wide eyes fixed on the blood trickling down his stomach. He suddenly looked up, eyes wide, and Castiel knew he was remembering what had happened to him. It was now or never.

Dean tried to pull back. "Hang on Cas, isn't your Grace—"

Castiel didn't wait for him to finish. Steeling himself, he began to force his Grace into Dean, holding tightly to him even when he began to struggle. Castiel's focus narrowed until the only thing he could see was Dean, and the only thing he could feel was his Grace pouring into his soul, filling it and healing it.

A light began to emanate from Dean where Castiel was touching him, softly at first and then brighter and brighter. It grew until it obliterated the surrounding room, and Dean and Cas were alone in a vast ocean of light, shooting towards the surface like rockets. The last thing Castiel saw before they broke through into the real world was the vivid green of Dean's eyes.

 

Dean's silver eyes flew open, and he sucked in a breath, feeling as though he had just come very close to drowning. He was lying on the bed in Bobby's spare room, although he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Something warm was curled around him, and Dean realized with shock and more than a little nervousness that it was Cas, wearing nothing but boxers. He couldn't help but blush when he realized that most of his clothes were also gone.

He lay very still for a moment, trying to remember what had happened. He had been hunting with Sam, that ghost had attacked him, and then—Alistair, the amnesia, Cas coming to save him; all of the memories of the hospital came back to him in a flash. He sat bolt upright, clutching at his chest reflexively, waiting for the searing pain and emptiness that had gotten him into the mess in the first place. Somehow, the pain was gone, only a remembered ache left behind, as if the wound in his soul had healed over. But the only way that could have happened was if… Dean turned to Cas, shaking him urgently.

"Cas, what the  _hell_  did you do?" The angel rolled weakly onto his back, eyes glassy. His breath came in rough, uneven gasps, and his skin was drained of all color. Dean shook his shoulders roughly until the angel's eyes focused on him. "Come on Cas, wake up!"

"Dean." Cas' mouth twitched up into a smile, but it was almost instantly replaced by a hacking cough that left blood on his lips. "You're okay." His eyes started to slide out of focus again. "That's good."

"Cas, I'm gonna get you help. We'll take you to a hospital or something, just hang on." Dean started to slide out of the bed, but Cas whimpered and clutched weakly at his arm.

"Don't, Dean." His voice was the tiniest whisper, and Dean froze. "Just stay with me until the end?" there was a pleading quality in his voice that made Dean settle onto the bed once more. Carefully, he lay back down next to the angel.

"Dammit Cas. God  _fucking_  dammit, I told you not to!" The angel curled against him like an abused puppy, and Dean was scared at how cold his body suddenly was. "There has to be a way for you to get your Grace back, you can't just—" Dean's voice broke, and he grabbed Castiel's hand, pressing it to the brand on his arm. "Take it back Cas, come on!"

"Dean, I can't—" the angel coughed again, and the droplets of blood were hot and sticky on Dean's face. "No heaven, remember?" His breathing was getting slower and slower, and Dean stared frantically into his eyes, trying to keep him awake by sheer force of will.

"Cas don't." There were tears in Dean's eyes, but he didn't care. Cas was dying literally in his arms, and he was just now realizing that he wasn't sure he could live without him. It was odd, in a sense. Dean had only ever had one person he couldn't live without, and that was Sam. But now he knew that Cas meant just as much to him, if not more. For some reason, he thought of the way Sam had been after Jess died, and his heart clenched. Dean buried his face in Cas' shoulder, not even trying to stop the sobs that shook him.

"I think I loved you, Dean." There was an almost childish puzzlement in the words. Dean's breath caught in his throat. Was that what it was? A wild idea born of grief flared up in his mind.

"You don't need Heaven, dammit," Dean whispered fiercely into Cas' neck. "You have me." He crushed his lips to the angel's in a brutal, possessive kiss that sent a shudder through Cas' failing body. Castiel was  _his_  angel, and there was no way he was going to let him go.

Dean pressed himself against Cas, needing to touch as much of the angel as he could, needing to claim every inch of him. Something inside of him stirred, in the place where Michael had hurt him, but Dean only clutched his angel tighter. With all of his energy, he  _willed_  Cas to live. Over and over his mind replayed the same words, a prayer to no one but Cas.  _I love you too. Don't die. Don't die Cas! I love you!_

 

A mile and a half away, Sam broke into a sprint as a column of light pierced the sky over Bobby's house.


	8. Don't You Know You're Everything I Have?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there's a will, there's a way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You lucky bastards, do you have any idea how long the rest of them had to wait between 7 and 8 when I first published this??

Castiel opened his eyes. This in itself was strange, as he wasn't aware that he would have eyes when he was dead. He also realized that the ceiling in death was a lot like the ceiling in Bobby's spare room.  _Impossible_ , he thought dazedly.  _He can't have brought me back again, there was nothing to bring back. All of my Grace was with Dean._  No sooner had Castiel thought the name than he felt a slight tug at his Grace, as if in answer.

His Grace. It was back, and if he wasn't mistaken it was as strong as it had ever been. He could feel Heaven again, feel it replenishing his strength and soothing away his fear. Only—Castiel frowned. He didn't remember Heaven feeling so… personal. He was still lying on his back in the bed, and reflexively he tried to stretch his wings before remembering that they were probably torn to shreds. To his surprise he felt the angelic appendages stretch and spread wide, their tips passing through the walls of the room. The feathers were as healthy and lustrous as he had ever seen them, and Castiel wondered what on earth Dean had done to them when he took his Grace.

Again, there was a twinge as he thought of Dean, and Castiel instantly knew that Dean was downstairs, sitting at the table drinking a beer. He also knew that Dean knew that he was awake. A flutter of unease ran through Castiel's mind, but he refused to focus on it. He was alive. Not only was he alive, his link to Heaven was restored. Castiel was seized with a longing to see his home once more, for the first time since he had fallen. He flapped his miraculously healed wings once and was gone.

A moment later he was quite literally sitting on a very confused Dean in the middle of Bobby's kitchen. Castiel quickly stood up, apologizing, and looked around. This wasn't right.

"Hey Cas. Um, I see you're finally awake. That's good." Dean was using the tone of voice he used when he knew he had screwed up and was waiting to be yelled at, and Castiel became even more perplexed.

"I don't understand. I was supposed to fly to Heaven. Let me try again." He stood up and shook out his wings.

Dean reached forwards hastily. "Wait Cas you—" but Castiel took flight before Dean finished speaking, concentrating fiercely on  _getting to Heaven_. To his astonishment he reappeared only a few feet to the right, accidentally crushing Dean against the refrigerator.

"—can't," Dean finished in a huff of air. Castiel stared at him, noticing that something was very different about Dean. For one thing, he was glowing slightly in Castiel's angelic vision, in a way Castiel had never seen a human shine before. For another, his eyes had changed color. Again.

"Dean, why is one of your eyes blue?" Castiel stared intently into Dean's face for a moment. Dean leaned back slightly, still nervous.

"Look, Cas, maybe you'd better sit down or something." Ignoring Dean, Cas glanced past him at his own reflection in the window, and twitched in surprise.

"Dean, why is one of my eyes silver?" Castiel knew he should probably be panicking a little more, but he couldn't help but feel secure. He had Heaven again, he had a home, and so whatever else had happened, he would be alright.

And yet… Castiel began going over the facts. He could sense Heaven again, but for some reason he couldn't fly there. Every time he tried, he somehow ended up practically on top of Dean. Also, he and Dean seemed to have some sort of bond now, far beyond anything else they had experience previously. He could sense Dean's emotions as if they were his own, and from the way Dean was reacting, it worked both ways.

"Dean…" Castiel said very slowly, hardly able to believe his own thoughts. "Are you the one who saved me?"

Dean rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, looking anywhere but at Castiel. "Um, I'm not sure, but… kinda, yeah."

"How?" Castiel wasn't angry. In fact, he was overjoyed, reveling in the return of his life and Grace. He was simply curious: how on earth did Dean, a human, manage to restore his connection to Heaven?

"That's the thing, Cas, I didn't really restore it." Dean said in a rush. Castiel blinked at him. "And yes, I can read your thoughts. But only a little, sometimes. I'm not sure why, I think it's part of the thing."

"Thing?"

"Yeah. When I saved you. I guess I uh, made a substitute Heaven." Castiel stared at Dean for a very long moment. He would have thought Dean was making a joke, but he could sense that Dean was serious. Giving it some thought, Castiel's blood ran cold.

"So… you're saying that you somehow replaced Heaven for me? With wh—" Castiel began, but the answer was right in front of him. "With yourself?" Dean gave a small nod. "Dean that's impossible." Even as he said it, Castiel's mind was filling in the blanks, fitting the diagnosis to the symptoms. The reason he couldn't fly to Heaven was because it wasn't a place anymore, it was a person, and so when he tried he only ended up in extremely close proximity to that person. The emotional bond that they shared, the physical representation of their connection via their eyes, it all fit in a weird sort of way.

For the first time in his existence, Castiel found himself needing to sit down very badly.

He collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, staring blankly at Dean as he tried to comprehend the massive upheaval of everything he had ever known. The hunter gingerly seated himself across from Castiel, as if afraid the angel would explode at any moment.

"I didn't mean to, Cas." Waves of regret and apprehension resonated through Castiel from their bond. "You were dying, and I knew it was my fault and I just... I guess I panicked."

Castiel struggled to remember the moments after he had healed Dean and brought him back. He remembered Dean shouting at him, remembered telling Dean he loved him, and then a kiss that sent fire through his whole being. He looked up at Dean in wonder.

 

"Cas?" Dean was worried about how well the angel was taking the news. Had their places been reversed, he knew he would have been flipping a shit. But maybe this was just the way Cas handled life-changing events. He could feel, through whatever bond he had created, that the angel wasn't angry at all.

"1 Corinthians, 13," Cas said softly, still gazing at Dean with a hero-worship that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

"Excuse me?"

"The book of Corinthians, chapter thirteen verse thirteen. 'And now these three remain, faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love'" Castiel quoted, and the smile he gave Dean was so overjoyed that Dean couldn't help but smile back.

"Seriously? Bible quotes at a time like this?" Dean laughed, but he felt vaguely uneasy. He'd never dealt well with things he didn't understand, and this was way out of his pay-grade. "So, um, what should we do about it?" Although he wouldn't admit it out loud, Dean didn't mind having Cas in his head all the time. It made him feel like he wasn't alone, like there was someone who would always need him and always be there no matter what happened.

"Do?" Cas' mismatched gaze was startled. "Dean, there's nothing really we can do."

"I mean, is this going to make things different? You know, for us." Dean raised an eyebrow as Cas snorted.

"I would imagine so. Dean, the fact that you're my Heaven now means that you are quite literally the most important thing to me. You are all that's keeping me alive, and I would imagine that if I should die the effect on you would be… unpleasant."

Dean chuckled slightly. "Well that's reassuring, but that's not what I meant." Cas wouldn't quite meet his gaze, and Dean suddenly found it difficult to speak. there were way too man emotions flowing through him, fear and hope and confusion and love, and not all of them were his. "I mean… you said you loved me. I was wondering if… you know…" Dean trailed off. He was awful at these things, and it didn't help that he kept imagining Sam's face when he heard that Dean was gay for an angel.

"Dean, of course I still love you. I just…" now it was Cas' turn to stammer. "I wasn't sure if you loved me back." Cas yelped as Dean suddenly hauled him out of the chair. "Dean, wha—" His question was stopped by Dean's lips on his, a teasing yet tender kiss that made Cas feel like flying. And he could, he realized suddenly.

Kissing Dean back soundly, the angel spread his wings and gave them the tiniest of flaps, transporting him and Dean up the stairs in the blink of an eye. Dean lost his balance and fell back on the bed with a gasp, eyes wide. "Cas?"

"I believe that last time we were like this, I was unconscious," Cas whispered, settling next to Dean and helping him out of the old tee shirt he had thrown on. "Might we try it again?"

Dean smirked and snuggled closer to Cas. At some point, he knew, the shit was going to hit the fan again, but right now he was content to cuddle with  _his_  angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta-daaaa! Hope you liked it!!
> 
> There is a part 3, but it is perpetually unfinished and really just a place for me to put my fluffy feels when I don't want them. I'll put it up but it never updates (because I'm never fluffy....).  
> Comment here, or there once it goes up, with any prompts you would like me to fill in this strange little verse of mine, and I'll do my best!


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